


The Adventure of the King's Ransom

by Riandra (LostWithoutMyDetective)



Category: H. G. Wells - Fandom, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-20
Updated: 2020-12-23
Packaged: 2021-03-03 19:07:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 17,121
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24830575
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LostWithoutMyDetective/pseuds/Riandra
Summary: When Dr. Watson leaves Switzerland in mourning for his dearest friend, he little suspects what strange adventures await his return to London... A revamp of Doyle's 'The Mazarin Stone', with an H.G. Wells twist!
Relationships: Mary Morstan & John Watson
Comments: 2
Kudos: 8





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> 'The Diamond Maker' is one of H. G. Wells's lesser known short stories - not surprising, as it's one of his dullest tales in terms of action; whereas Arthur Conan Doyle's 'The Adventure of the Mazarin Stone' has plenty of drama, but is the worst written of the Holmes canon! Clearly, these two gem-related stories have something to offer each other...

**The Adventure of the King's Ransom**

_From the private journal of Doctor John H. Watson, M.D._

December 5th, 1893

It feels most strange, and not a little macabre, to be taking up my pen once again, only six months after promising myself that I should never undertake to document another of Sherlock Holmes's cases. Time, alas, does not halt or even slow for the convenience of the bereaved. Another Christmas crawls on apace, and the editor of the _Strand_ has begun to look unconsciously hopeful whenever we meet, poor fellow. I will readily admit that his hesitant suggestion last year that the Baskerville mystery would make an excellent serial has much to recommend it... but God help me, I _cannot_ do it. Let 'The Final Problem' truly be the final chapter, and let me lay my friend at last to rest.

Yet Life, with all of her impish tricks and fancies, thrusts rudely in upon morbid reflection, and prompts me to record certain recent events, if only for the sake of posterity. Perhaps, when sufficient time has passed... although I rather think not. The public has no need or desire for 'The Adventures of John Watson'. My dearest Mary disagrees, naturally, the warmth in her beautiful eyes and at the corners of her mouth daring me to contradict her whenever the old, familiar melancholy casts its shadow. A fool her husband may be, but not so great a fool as that! In any case, I find myself with increasingly little time for introspection as the happy date draws near.

Perhaps, dear posterity, you yourself have happened upon this bundle of pages, yellowing away at the back of some old, forgotten cabinet drawer. Do as you wish with it, I pray you. Destroy it, publish it, or even tell it to round-eyed bairns at your knee – remembering to embellish shamelessly, of course! Your late godfather (for so I always meant him to be, and so he shall be) would doubtless shake his head and sigh, but the blessed man never did quite comprehend that stories are alive, and meant to grow in the retelling. I confess, I find it comforting to think that even this 'over-romanticised account of analytical reasoning' might do the same.  


~0~

  
I remember mercifully little of the first few months after my return from Switzerland. Looking back, it mostly seems a fog of black crêpe and offensively cheerful bouquets, although details jut out here and there, as the jagged edge of a broken tooth might make itself felt amid the agony of an abscess. Mary's hands in mine, ice cold even through two pairs of gloves; the Irregulars perched stiffly on an unfamiliar sofa in the Baker Street sitting room, staring as one at the new carpet, unmarked by chemical stains or scorch marks from the fire set by Moriarty's thugs; Lestrade's cold mug of tea, untouched, turning around and around in his hands; streaks of grey in Mycroft's hair, standing beside an empty casket...

But I digress. And perhaps it is a hopeful sign that my memories of that dreadful season tend towards those dear ones who – I must confess it – kept me from meeting a much less noble fate than Holmes's, until I began, gradually, to take a genuine interest in the world beyond my door again. Thankfully, my practice had not suffered overmuch from my absence, Mycroft having made arrangements with several of my medical colleagues. One young man in particular, Albert Hayward, was eager to be taken on full-time as a junior partner, which, after some hesitation (and the gentle but firm insistence of my wife), I accepted. Mary was rather less diplomatic, however, when I came home one evening in August with the news that I would now be working part time as a surgeon for New Scotland Yard.

From the very beginning, Lestrade had refused to let me become a complete hermit, dropping by at least one evening a week. I regret that I failed to appreciate these painfully awkward visits at first, until at last it dawned on me one torrential night how very far Kensington was out of my colleague's usual way home. I don't even recall begging his pardon... but after that, I did succeed in bestirring myself now and then to return the gesture, and the relief in the man's eyes at the change in my habits, however slight, seemed amends enough at the time. My close intimacy with Holmes had nurtured a deep interest in crime, which grief alone could not erase, and Lestrade was perfectly willing to talk over his more recent cases with me. A few I had already read of in the papers, which I half-heartedly attempted to solve using Holmes's methods, while acknowledging in frustration that the papers had probably been denied a good portion of the facts necessary for sound deduction. Lestrade confirmed my hypothesis with a sympathetic chuckle, and occasionally rewarded my curiosity with the missing details. The cunning blighter even sought my professional opinion on several ongoing investigations, which is how I found myself breathing the frigid, sickly air of the morgue once again, vowing to myself it would be for the last time. As Holmes might have said, that was one of my more erroneous conclusions.

Working at the Yard had its challenges, of course, and I bless every one of my colleagues who helped to make the transition much smoother than it might have been, whatever their personal reservations were on the matter. Gregson, I feel sure, frequently voiced his doubts to Lestrade as to the wisdom of allowing me the run of a professional law institution, one which held so many powerful memories. Nevertheless, his attitude towards me remained as courteous as ever. I in turn, sensible of the risks my friends were taking over my mental state, seized every opportunity to prove that their faith in me had not been misplaced – perhaps a little too zealously in the beginning. By the end of the first month, I was up before the superintendent for a severe reprimand, after Lestrade had roused me from slumber at the end of my fifth double shift; and I believe that this, more than anything else, helped to endear me to my fellow Yarders. As Constable Furley remarked with a grin on my way out: "Cheer up, Doctor, we've all been there! Better the brass than the missus, eh?" Cheeky young pup... but I couldn't deny it.

It was not long after this that the first of the events which I have to relate were set into motion. I was on the point of closing up the morgue one November evening, when a dreadful commotion suddenly broke out on the upper floor, which I credited at first to some inebriate who objected to sobering up at Her Majesty's pleasure. As I donned hat and coat, however, Lestrade put his head around the door and apologetically asked if I would bring my Gladstone up for the man in Cell Five.

"I'm glad I caught you before you left, Doctor, he's in a right old mess!"

"Pub brawl?"

"Not unless the pub was burning down around him!" Lestrade snorted, and led the way upstairs.

And indeed, when the cell was opened, my own first impression was that the new arrival had been rescued from a fire; what remained of his clothes were tattered and scorched, and the acrid stink of smoke and burnt hair filled the tiny room. The poor devil was thrashing about on the cot in obvious agony, raving incoherently at the two cell constables attempting to restrain him.

"Why wasn't this man taken straight to hospital?" I demanded, hastily preparing a syringe of morphine.

"The local hospitals were all full up, Doctor," Lestrade said apologetically. "Well, _you_ know what it's like this time of year! This was the nearest, cleanest bed for miles, and since we have our own surgeons..."

"True," I sighed, advancing with the syringe. "All right, hold his arm, Lestrade, as still as you can."

~0~

With my new patient in a somewhat calmer state, I did what I could to make him more comfortable. Now that there was time to properly observe as I worked, I couldn't help but note that the poor man's injuries told a slightly different story to my initial assumption. Although most of the exposed skin was badly burned, the very worst burns were along his palms and forearms, in addition to numerous cuts and scrapes, while the skin of his face was relatively unscathed besides the ears and brow – almost as if he had been attempting to shield his face from... some kind of explosion!

"I'm impressed, Doctor." I hadn't realised I'd spoken aloud until Lestrade answered me, having put his head back around the cell door momentarily to check on my progress. "That's exactly what happened to him. And if eyewitnesses are to be believed, he's the one who caused the ruddy blast in the first place!"

"He had the devil's own luck, then," I marvelled, delicately binding another dressing in place. "Whatever was he trying to do?"

"Ahhh!" I almost dropped the roll of gauze at my patient's sudden outburst, his voice hoarse with pain. "Ahh... w-what, indeed?" came another rusty croak, red-veined eyes bulging up at me from the pinched, pale face. Mottled hands clutched at my overcoat, which I tried vainly to loosen before giving up for fear of causing him further injury. "Y-you, sir... could not... _imagine_..."

"Calmly, my good man, you're safe now," I said, gently but firmly. "You must rest, you've had quite the ordeal."

"Rest!" he cried. "Rest, when all is...!" A bout of coughing seized him, releasing my coat unconsciously as he fought for breath.

Lestrade called for water, and helped the prisoner to drink – with something akin to my own bedside manner, I was pleased to note – whilst I took the opportunity to refill the syringe. The man had barely taken his gaze from me, however, and shook his head as I returned. "Please... no more... I beg you..."

"You're still in a great deal of pain, sir," I said in concern. "Will you not let me do what I can?" I wouldn't have denied even Holmes the needle in such a state! Thank God he never _had_ come home looking like this...

An odd little smile tugged at his cracked lips. "If you speak... in earnest, Doctor... then send these poor fools away. It will be a comfort... to tell _someone_..."

I shared a wondering glance with Lestrade. "You want _me_ to hear your statement?"

"None other."

Lestrade frowned, hearing the implacable note amid the rasp. "Well, I suppose it couldn't do any harm," he said slowly. "You do realise, sir, that this is no confessional, but a prison cell? Doctor Watson is bound by his office to report everything you might tell him in confidence."

"I know it... No doubt you think it... absurd..." He gave a faint huff of laughter, which became another paroxysm of coughing. "It _is_ absurd..." he gasped once the spasms had subsided. "Even your doctor will not believe... what I tell him... so it is safe enough."

"Well, I cannot prevent you from speaking," I answered dubiously, silently cursing the oath which forbade me to disregard my patient's wish to remain lucid. "If you will not rest easy until you have unburdened yourself to me... then by all means, do so."


	2. Chapter 2

"You clearly know something of irksome labour, Doctor," my patient began once the others had departed, with a great many coughing fits and pauses for breath which I will not include here. "But I doubt you have ever been so brain-weary and footsore as I... Bah! Sometimes I feel inclined to throw the whole thing over – name, wealth, position – and take to some modest trade. But I know if I abandoned my ambition – hardly as she uses me – I should have nothing but remorse left for the rest of my days."

I looked at him in astonishment. If ever I saw a man in the depths of poverty, it was the man in front of me! His burns notwithstanding, there was no mistaking the frayed and unkempt state of him before the explosion. And he was talking to _me_ of the irksome worries of a large business? In other circumstances, I might have laughed outright. Either the poor man was mad, or making a sorry jest of his own misfortune.

"Yes, well, high ambition does have its compensations..." was my feeble reply, but I regretted the words the moment I uttered them, as my patient gave me a dignified look that utterly transcended his haggard features.

"I forgot myself. Of course you don't understand. In spite of all my troubles, I really have a big business in hand, a very big business. The fact is... I make diamonds." Something in my expression must have betrayed me, for he gave a rasping sigh. "I am sick of being disbelieved!" Reaching inside his ragged coat, he pulled out a little canvas bag that was hanging by a cord around his neck. From this he produced a rough, dark pebble and handed it to me. "I wonder if you know enough to know what that is?"

And indeed, the years I had spent as Holmes's friend and colleague had given me a smattering of mineralogy, in addition to my university studies. The stone was not unlike a raw, uncut diamond, but much too dark, putting me in mind of Moissan's first abortive efforts with his electric arc furnace. Saying as much caused my patient to nod impatiently.

"Diamonds," he began – and as he spoke, his voice assumed something of the easy tone of an educated man – "are made by throwing carbon out of combination in a suitable flux and under a suitable pressure; but no one has yet hit upon exactly the right flux to melt the carbon, or exactly the right pressure to crystallise it. Thus the diamonds made by chemists are small and dark, worthless as jewels. Now, I have given up my life to this problem – given my life to it! I was seventeen when I began..." He laughed hoarsely. "Tell me, Doctor, would you have guessed me to be but thirty-two? It seemed to me that it might take all of a man's thought and energies for ten, twenty years, but even if it did, the game was still worth the candle. Suppose one at last just hit the right trick before the secret got out, and diamonds became as common as coal? One might realise millions. Millions!"

He paused and looked for my sympathy, eyes shining hungrily. "To think," he said, "that I might be on the verge of it all, and yet shut away here!

"By great good fortune, I had inherited a thousand pounds when I was twenty-one, and this, I thought, eked out by a little teaching, would keep my researches going. A year or two was spent in study, at Berlin chiefly, and then I continued on my own account. At first I had a little laboratory, but as my resources began to run out I had to conduct my experiments in a wretched unfurnished room in Lambeth, where I slept at last on a straw mattress on the floor among all my apparatus. The money simply flowed away. I grudged myself everything except scientific appliances. I tried to keep things going by a little teaching, but I am not a very good teacher, and I have no university degree, nor very much education except in chemistry, and I found I had to give a lot of time and labour for precious little money. But I got nearer and nearer the thing. And now, I believe I have discovered the correct composition of the flux!"

I was by this point convinced that my patient was indeed a fellow student of science; jargon aside, his eyes were alight with all of the fervour I had seen in Holmes's whilst conducting an experiment of his own devising... and a fair few of those had ended in much the same fashion! "I gather, then, that discovering the correct _pressure_ remains a work in progress?"

"Yes. This evening, I put the flux and carbon into a closed-up gun barrel, filled it with water, sealed it tightly and heated it."

I resisted the urge to sigh. "And did you not think that might be rather hazardous?"

"It was in the interest of science," he said dismissively. "Alas, the barrel burst, and smashed all of my windows and most of my apparatus. I shall have to try a cylinder with a screw cap next. Daubrée, you see, tried exploding dynamite..."

I had now heard enough, and raised my hand to stem his diatribe. "My dear sir, I... I hardly know what to make of all you've told me." For my part, I more than half believed his story... yet had not Holmes pointed out for years that credulity was one of my besetting sins? "But in any case, you surely cannot think that any officer of the law would allow you to continue performing such volatile experiments! Why, you might blow up the entire building next, or kill someone else!"

"Will _you_ not aid me, then?" he cried. "You know I am no anarchist, you could assure your policeman friend I meant no harm..."

I shook my head regretfully. "Inspector Lestrade is not the man you would need to convince, my poor friend." Even if he were, and I could have afforded bail, my patient could hardly return to work in his former laboratory, or in his present state of health! "You forget, the report I am duty-bound to write will end up on higher desks than his. The very least of your unwitting offences is criminal negligence, and you will be made to stand trial for it. _However_ ," I hastened to add as his eyes screwed shut in despair, "I _can_ ensure that whatever remains of your work is kept secure while the courts determine your fate. Lestrade will tolerate no thefts or tampering with evidence, I promise you." I smiled and gently patted his bandaged hand while he eyed me doubtfully. "Whether it be days, weeks, or months from now, your property will be restored to you the very hour you are set at liberty, and you may continue your quest. I shall wish you all the luck in the world."

~0~

And who could tell, I mused as I left the cell, having done what little I could to give him a comfortable night; a decent period of enforced rest for the poor man might well provide food for thought as much as physical restoration. How many times had I seen Holmes do the same: step back from a problem to seek a fresh perspective, which so often turned out to be the correct one!

If only I could have found a little of that same inspiration. Lestrade grinned in sympathy when he found me staring at a mostly blank sheet of paper.

"Need some help?"

I nodded gratefully, and he pulled up a chair. "My apologies to you and all our colleagues, Lestrade. Writing up my own case notes had nothing on this!"

He chuckled. "Had quite the tale, did he?"

"You might say that..."

"Well, what about this: you repeat what he said to me, and I'll translate onto paper as we go."

"Well, that's... very kind of you..." Lestrade was certainly far more practised in the appropriate phrasing for a report of this type... but now that I actually came to tell someone else my patient's story, all of my earlier doubts were creeping back. I also knew well how such a narrative would sound to a more pragmatic ear than mine – Lestrade would most likely laugh himself into stitches at the very idea of making diamonds, and in such a makeshift laboratory! Then, too, from a purely ethical standpoint, _was_ it right to reveal the nature of my new friend's experiments to anyone, before he had even been granted the chance to perfect and patent his methods?

"Actually, Lestrade... I think I'll muddle through on my own this time – thanks all the same." I gave his raised brows a strained smile. "Oh! One thing before you go, though: the prisoner was very anxious about his scientific apparatus. I told him I'd ask about whether it might eventually be returned to him."

"What's _left_ of it, I hope he means!" Lestrade snorted as he stood up again. "Well, I really don't know – it'll depend largely on the verdict, of course."

"I know, but... did anybody at the scene happen to find a large metal tube, burst open at one end?"

Lestrade gave me a Look. " _Before_ they dragged our battered friend out by the light of flaming wreckage, or after?"

"Right, sorry," I mumbled, face growing warm. "It's just that he claimed the materials he was working with in that tube were rather valuable, and I had to promise him we'd find it to keep him calm..."

"All right, Doctor!" Lestrade sighed. "I'll drop in at the fire station first thing tomorrow, will that do?"

"I suppose so... Yes, thank you, Lestrade," I amended hastily, appalled at my unthinking rudeness – I must have been more tired than I'd thought! "That would be most helpful." Nothing else could be done until the morning, anyhow... except for finishing this blasted report.

~0~

"Mary?" I called softly as I closed our front door behind me. No reply came – not that I had really expected one at this time of night, Mary must have gone to bed hours ago. I hung up my hat and coat, exchanged my damp shoes for a pair of slippers, and shuffled slowly to the kitchen in search of a late supper.

To my surprise, Mary sat dozing in a chair beside the stove, mouth open, the book she'd apparently been reading perched precariously on her knee. I rescued it as delicately as I could, but the movement was enough to rouse my wife, blinking up at me blearily. "...John?"

"I'm sorry, Mary," I murmured, and bent to kiss her. "You shouldn't have waited up so late."

Mary gasped as our lips touched. "Ooh, John, you're frozen!" She stood and pushed me down into her chair. "You sit right there and get warm, I'll make some tea."

I nodded gratefully, too tired to argue. "How was your day, love? Did anything interesting happen?"

"Mm, only if you count Wendy Albright's sister, do you remember Wendy? Long black curls, hosts our ladies' sewing circle on Thursdays? Anyhow, her sister had turned up unexpectedly for a visit from Hertfordshire..."

I leaned back in my chair with a sigh, letting Mary's voice and the sound of tea-making wash over me. In this warm, homely space, the chill of the prison cell and its occupant's hypnotic tale suddenly seemed very far away...

"John?" Mary's hand on my shoulder made me startle, her brows knitted in concern. "Darling, are you all right? You were muttering in your sleep!"

"Oh... No, no, I'm fine, honestly," I smiled, accepting the cup she held out. "I just had a bit of an unusual patient at the Yard before coming home, that's all. Stupid fellow..." I silently begged my friend's pardon for such a casual dismissal of his _magnum opus_. "He'd half destroyed his lodgings messing about with explosives!"

"Oh my goodness! Well, what a mercy you were still at work! Was he badly hurt?"

"I'm afraid so. Which reminds me..." I eyed Mary sheepishly. "Sweetheart, I know I promised to take the whole day off tomorrow, but..."

"But you want to see to your new patient first," Mary smiled, with only a hint of a resignation in her voice. "Of course you must go."

"It shouldn't take long," I assured her. "Half an hour, then the rest of the day will be ours."

"It had better be." Mary wagged a roguish finger at me. "You've been home so little lately, if you aren't careful I might start to think myself an old maid again!"

"Glad to hear it," I murmured, reaching out and drawing her close. "Then I could court the sweetest woman in the world all over again, win her heart even faster the second time."

Mary laughed, blushing, and rewarded my barefaced flattery with a tender kiss.


	3. Chapter 3

“Gone?” I stared at Lestrade, mouth open. “What do you mean, the prisoner’s gone? That poor man wasn’t nearly fit enough to be taken anywhere!”

“I’m sorry, Doctor.” Lestrade took a file from the top of a teetering stack and passed it over. “I would’ve sent word earlier this morning, if I’d thought it would do any good. The press are already calling his lodgings ‘The Lambeth Bomb Factory’, and my... _our_ superiors take an understandably dim view of potential terrorists – even accidental ones,” he added wryly. “Given the circumstances, the superintendent decided he should be moved to a more suitable facility before the trial.”

“What _kind_ of facility?” My eyes narrowed; strangely, no specific institution had been named in the paperwork, but my colleague’s expression was eloquent. “Lestrade? It wasn’t _Bethlem_ , by any chance?” 

“Just until someone can determine whether he’ll be fit to plead,” Lestrade hastened to reassure me, but I was barely listening. Bethlem Hospital! Known deservedly by all and sundry as Bedlam... And I... dear God, had my deception in that report over what the prisoner was really researching led the superintendent to believe my friend might be criminally insane? An old experiment of Holmes’s, terminated by me due to its potential explosive qualities, had seemed such a plausible alternative... Rash, deluded _idiot_ that I was, in shirking my sworn duty, I could so easily have sealed the poor man’s fate!

“Watson?” I flinched at the hand on my shoulder, insides writhing at Lestrade’s tone of concern. My colleague was no fool, had he already realised what I had done? 

“Don’t feel too badly about it, now, Doctor, we’ve all been there. I’m sorry, I should have seen this coming...”

“...What?”

“Happens to the best of us,” Lestrade went on, giving my shoulder a kindly shake before releasing me. “Lord, the yarns I’ve had spun at _me_ over the years would’ve done an Irishman proud! I know you’ve been... well, in the habit of exercising your own judgement over a suspect’s innocence, you and Holmes... but that isn’t your job _here_ , Doctor, or mine. In cases like this, our duty is just to ensure that the right people and evidence get to court in one piece, nothing more.”

I nodded glumly, relief and shame warring within my breast. This was but a brief respite before Lestrade – before everyone! – learned of my deceitful conduct. If I wished to retain a shred of personal or professional integrity, I would have to confess all, tell Lestrade what the exploded tube had truly contained... My God, the tube!

“Er... Lestrade, did you visit the fire station this morning? You know, to see if the fire crew salvaged anything from the man’s lodgings...”

“Oh! Sorry, Doctor, it went right out of my head. Yes, I did drop in there, and no, they didn’t find anything like what you described. I guess that explosion must have reduced it to scrap!”

“Yes...” Or someone else had gained entrance in all the confusion... but who? Useless even to speculate just now, the possibilities were endless. The whole of Marylebone had known about Holmes’s experiments, so it was nonsensical to think that ‘The Lambeth Bomb Factory’ had gone entirely unnoticed by my new friend’s neighbours before the explosion, no matter how discreet he’d thought himself! And I still didn’t even know his name...

~0~

“Inspector.” The constable on duty touched his helmet, stepping aside. “Mind how you go, sirs – s’not much left holding the place up, I shouldn’t wonder!”

“We’ll be careful, Biggs,” Lestrade nodded. “A quick look round is all we want. Watch your step there, Doctor.”

Lestrade had raised an intrigued eyebrow when I stammeringly asked him to accompany me to the site of the explosion, but mercifully refrained from asking awkward questions on the way. This may have been partly due to Mary’s tight-lipped reaction to my sending her home in a different cab from the Yard, my promise to explain everything when I returned home notwithstanding. It couldn’t be helped, however. My wife could hardly accompany us to the scene of an ongoing police investigation, and I was reluctant to confess anything to Lestrade without making _some_ attempt to corroborate my tale with hard evidence, whether that was the remains of the tube or its contents, or some clue as to who might have taken it. 

And indeed, our ‘quick look’ did turn up something of interest. A charred timber had fallen across what could only be the remains of my friend’s apparatus, and one of the nails jutting from the wood appeared to have snagged someone’s outer garment: a few strands of fine, grey wool clung to the blackened metal, apparently untouched by flame or smoke.

Lestrade fished a small paper bag and a pair of tweezers out of his pocket, and carefully unhooked the strands. “Hm, looks like somebody _was_ here after the fire crew... and well dressed, too, this is top quality cloth!” My colleague frowned, putting the evidence delicately away before turning back to me, voice strangely nonchalant. “Funny, isn’t it, the way history always seems to repeat itself.”

A tingle of unease crawled down my spine. “Does it?”

“Oh, aye... like that experiment our prisoner claimed he was conducting in your report from last night. Now, maybe my memory’s faulty, but I seem to recall you telling me once about Holmes trying to carry out that exact same experiment at Baker Street...” 

I felt suddenly cold. Damn and blast, I had completely forgotten that I’d gone for a nerve-steadying pint with Lestrade that very afternoon! 

“Watson...” Redfaced, I steeled myself to meet my colleague’s eyes – and thank God, Lestrade’s expression was one of almost fatherly concern. “Why are we really here?”

I could only stare. “You... knew? But...” _Why_ had he waited so long to mention it, and to me of all people?

“You wouldn’t keep anyone’s scientific work secret without a damn good reason, Doctor. This case is a lot bigger than some lab accident, isn’t it?”

~0~

I spent most of the cab ride back to the Yard telling Lestrade everything I knew, whereupon my colleague spent the remainder of the journey trying to persuade me not to turn myself in. “I don’t like this, Watson, not at all. Look, I can’t say any better than you whether our man was right about how close he was getting... but you can’t have been the only one who knew what he was trying to do. Why else would our superiors hustle him out of the public’s view so fast?”

“But what does that have to with _my_ conduct?” I argued. “I’m fully prepared to accept whatever decision...”

“Give me strength!” Lestrade groaned. “ _Think_ , Watson: how’s it going to help anything to admit to our superiors, in a _private hearing_ , that you kept quiet about something that’s already lost one man his right to a public trial?”

“Oh, come now...” 

Lestrade snorted. “I can just see the headlines in the paper: ‘Diamonds common as coal!’ You know as well as I do, there’s no chance now he’ll ever be deemed fit to plead! And I wouldn’t rate your chances any better, coming forward.” He smiled grimly at my astonished expression. “I’m not about to lose one of the best damn officers I’ve ever had, just for being wiser than he knew. You’ll oblige me, Doctor, by staying right where you are, and keeping your eyes and ears open, same as me.”

I nodded slowly. “Well... if it’s eyes and ears we need...”

~0~

“A most interesting story, gentlemen.” Mycroft leaned back in his chair, fingers steepled, gazing at me keenly. “Curious that, out of everyone in whom he might have confided, our man chose you, Doctor. Tell me... in your professional opinion, given enough time and resources, _could_ he have achieved his aim? Created a diamond of sufficient quality to at least deceive the average civilian?”

“Er...” There it was, the inevitable question that I had been dreading having to answer. “I... believe so...” But in truth, that fire-eaten look in my friend’s eyes had been all the data I really needed. “Yes, I rather think he could have.”

“Thank you, Doctor.” Mycroft gave me a grave little smile. “It is a great shame that none of us can do any more now than guess the fate of the experiment’s remains, but there it is.”

“But what of the prisoner himself? You seem certain that he is at Bethlem, do you not think...”

“I think he will do well enough there for the moment, Doctor.” Mycroft’s voice was kind enough, but with a sudden undernote of iron. “No doubt visitations could easily be arranged for his closest family – provided, of course, that they did not hamper the poor man’s recovery in any way.”

I had only kept my mouth from falling open with the greatest difficulty. Of all the naïve idiots... I had so long thought of Holmes’s older brother as another friend and colleague, I had entirely forgotten Holmes’s half-casual warning from years earlier: _“Mycroft_ is _the British government.”_ What in the world had made me think that Mycroft would not share Whitehall’s views about man-made diamonds, or fail to ensure that ‘ _our_ man’ could cause no economic mischief with them? The only error on Whitehall’s part appeared to have been losing track of the tube and its theoretical contents... And of course, any of those second-rate diamonds would be a mere booby prize, compared to the minute traces of flux that might still be clinging to the inside of the tube! Without that, anyone else attempting to recreate the flux’s composition on their own, with a view to improving the formula, would have an insurmountable task.

As I sat with mind awhirl, I was vaguely aware of Lestrade making the appropriate concerned noises. “...but we mustn’t keep you from your work any longer, Mr. Holmes. It was very good of you to take the time to see us. Come along, Doctor.”

I managed to mumble something suitable in Mycroft’s direction as we left, and then, thank God, we were finally back out in the street. I took a few deep breaths, uncaring of Lestrade’s scrutiny, eyes stinging at the sudden overwhelming desire to purge my lungs of anything that remained from that den of... of bureaucracy. Heaven knew, Holmes had been perfectly capable of acting like an automaton towards myself or a client when he wished, and those incidents had all been repellent enough; but to see that same heart of marble in the elder Holmes, and over such a delicate affair... In my current frame of mind, I could almost hope that _this_ friendship had also just come to an end.


	4. Chapter 4

After that distasteful interview, I was all for heading directly to Bethlem, but Lestrade told me roundly not to be a fool. “If it hadn’t been for that bloody explosion last night, Doctor, you’d already be at home with your good wife – and that’s just where you’re going now! Lord, you could use those bags under your eyes to carry potatoes!”

I nodded grudgingly, although the thought of spending the rest of the day with Mary was a most welcome one after the morning we’d just had.

Lestrade hailed a cab, climbing in after me. “You know, I do think Mycroft was right, Watson: our man’ll come to no harm where he is, at least for the moment. Best place for him, really, with that sort of information in his head...”

“No, it isn’t!” I replied sharply. “I don’t give a damn what Mycroft said, Lestrade. That man became _my_ client last night, and as far as I’m concerned, he still is!” 

Lestrade gave me an odd look. “Don’t you mean ‘patient’?”

“What?”

“You said ‘client’ just now, Doctor, not ‘patient’.” Lestrade shook his head at my reddening cheeks. “Look, Watson... I’m sure I don’t need to tell _you_ , of all people, about getting too involved with a case...”

“No, Inspector, indeed not,” I replied, a little more sharply than I’d intended. “Many thanks for your concern.” 

I ignored the sharp prod from my conscience as Lestrade’s lips tightened, both of us lapsing into an affronted silence, for which I perversely became less and less grateful as we neared my house. Perhaps I had spoken a _trifle_ hastily... yet I still didn’t see the need to justify my views. My colleague hadn’t lived with Holmes as a friend and flatmate all those years; he could hardly know better than I the effects of being cooped up in one or two rooms, without any form of meaningful work, upon a person of such restless ambition and intelligence! And to have a dream of extreme wealth within one’s grasp, only to be snatched out of reach at the last second... that would be enough to drive any man mad, and I would be damned if I simply stood by and allowed it to happen. 

I bade Lestrade an awkward farewell at my front door, reminding him pointedly that I wouldn’t be at the Yard for the next two days, as I had my usual practice to attend to.

“I hadn’t forgotten,” he coolly assured me, although his tone seemed to imply that he’d been wondering if I had. “Good afternoon, Doctor. My regards to Mrs. Watson.”

“Good afternoon, Inspector.” As my colleague turned away, a sudden misgiving prompted me to blurt out, “Lestrade... thank you for today. I, er... don’t suppose I’ve been the most pleasant company...” 

Lestrade raised an eloquent eyebrow, then gave me a sympathetic grin. “Go on with you, Watson. I’ll see what else I can find out about your friend, all right? You never know... perhaps there’s some other random crime he might have witnessed before last night?”

Which would of course necessitate a second interview... I laughed. “Bless you, Lestrade! I’ll see you on Friday.”

~0~

An afternoon and evening off with my dear Mary, followed by two days of ordinary practice, did a great deal to improve my disposition. Lestrade did have a point, after all: Bethlem Hospital was by far the best asylum as far as conditions for its patients went, thanks largely to a long run of compassionate resident directors and the recently-passed Lunacy Act of last year. My friend would receive excellent care for his physical injuries, at least, and I felt quietly confident that in time I might be able to get him released – provided he posed no further threat to the British economy, of course! All that my client... patient likely needed was for someone to gently nudge his thoughts in a different direction, suggest a new way forward. There must be many other applications for his detailed knowledge of chemistry, besides creating a mere illusion of wealth. It would be a positive crime to waste such a valuable human asset to scientific progress, and I meant to tell Mycroft so when next we met.

In the meantime, it was imperative that I should get back in contact with my patient, reassure him that he had at least one friend on the outside with his best interests at heart. Even if visits were forbidden at the moment, I could surely persuade the current superintendent to inform him that I had called.

Friday morning saw me back at the Yard, Lestrade greatly relieved at how much better I looked. “I went round to see the building’s landlord while you were away, Doctor. I didn’t learn very much, though, except for the name your patient gave when he moved in: Edward Taylor.” 

“An alias, most likely,” I sighed. “Well, if you’re free this afternoon, Lestrade, shall we see what else we can discover?”

When we arrived at Bethlem, however, we learned with dismay from the chief physician that we had been too slow off the mark yet again: ‘Edward Taylor’ had already escaped two nights ago!

~0~

“I’m terribly sorry, officers.” Superintendent Robert Smith frowned down at the report on his desk. “One of our senior orderlies, George Brown, was approached by a strange gentleman on Wednesday morning, who claimed to be a distant relative of our newest arrival, and offered him a large sum of money to assist Mr. Taylor – if that is indeed the patient’s name – in leaving the hospital, which he unfortunately succeeded in doing. Mercifully, Mr. Brown was caught trying to break into the archives next, with the intent, we believe, of altering the patient’s medical file.”

“Why didn’t you report this incident earlier?” I demanded angrily. The poor, desperate fool... I couldn’t blame ‘Taylor’ in the least for seizing the first chance of escape offered him!

“We did, Doctor – to the persons who committed him to our care, which I’m afraid is classified information unless you gentlemen can produce a warrant. As for Brown, he has been suspended, and is due to be disciplined by the Lunacy Commission for his unprofessional conduct.” Smith’s eyes narrowed. “The patient may have witnessed a serious crime, you say?” 

“Indeed he may, which I’m afraid is also classified information,” Lestrade replied smoothly, rising from his chair. “Thank you, Dr. Smith, you’ve been most helpful.”

~0~

“But why didn’t you at least ask for the orderly’s address?” I asked Lestrade as we left the building. “I’m sure he could tell us _something_ about what this ‘distant relative’ looked like!”

“And how would that help us track him down, with nearly forty-eight hours head start?” Lestrade retorted. “You can bet George Brown’s already told everything he knows to his superiors, who’ll have passed that information straight on to ours! And if none of them have found a sign of the pair by now, what hope do we have of doing any better?”

“So you’re just going to give up?!” 

“I don’t like it any more than you do, Watson,” my colleague sighed, “but we have to face facts: your patient is probably long gone. He could be practically anywhere in the British Isles by now, if not the Continent!” Lestrade gripped my shoulder bracingly as I groaned, putting my head in my hands. “And the longer we carry on this investigation unofficially, the more trouble we’re likely to attract. At least we know ‘Taylor’ is in no physical danger at the moment.”

That made me look up again! “What makes you so sure?”

“Because whoever was behind this rescue obviously wants ‘Taylor’ to continue his work. If he’d wanted that knowledge buried, he could have bribed Brown to simply give ‘Taylor’ an overdose of sedative or something.”

“True...” 

“And even if our man doesn’t completely trust his patron’s motives, he’s hardly going to pass up the chance to finally realise his dream, is he? A private laboratory, all the equipment and materials he might need, money no object...”

“Yes, yes, all _right_!” What worried me more than any of that was the thought of what might happen _after_ the first quality diamonds had made their debut. How much would Taylor’s life be worth to his benefactor then? I prayed to God that my friend would have the good sense not to reveal more of his methods or formulas than strictly necessary! And with Lestrade unequivocally resigning as my partner for this case, I suspected I would soon be petitioning Heaven’s good graces far more frequently.

~0~

The next several weeks were the most uncomfortable I had yet spent at Scotland Yard. Lestrade knew me far too well to believe that I had dropped the case altogether, and I took care to hide a decoy set of notes where I could be certain he alone would find them. I had already considered and rejected the idea of Taylor being smuggled out of London, never mind England. My friend’s injuries must still be too severe to allow him to travel far without attracting attention. Making inquiries with any railway or shipping lines would therefore be a waste of time, but if Lestrade believed that this was my intent, so much the better. He would probably have had apoplexy if he’d known what I was really up to.

If, as I suspected, Taylor were to remain in London for the duration of his endeavours, it seemed likely that a new diamond would eventually emerge on the market to test the waters; but it would hardly find its way to a respectable jeweller, they’d spot a fake instantly and report it! Holmes had had occasional business with the less reputable sort of trader, however, and it didn’t take me long to track down a handful of his old contacts. I could not reveal my true identity, of course – any weight that my association with Holmes might have lent me had gone with him – but even in disguise, I still retained my own methods of persuasion. I felt fairly confident that at least one or two fences would send word if any new diamonds appeared to be circulating. 

That sense of confidence was about to be my undoing.

~0~

One foggy November evening, I had finished work early, intending to surprise Mary with dinner at our favourite local restaurant. My poor wife had recently recovered from a severe cold, which had necessarily put all case work out of my head, save for hers. Dining out would make a pleasant change for both of us, as my own cooking skills were limited, and I had forbidden Mary to resume working at a hot, smoky kitchen range before she was completely well.

A stone’s throw from home, my pleasant musings on the merits of roast beef followed by apple tart and cream were interrupted by the sudden, nagging feeling that all was not as it should be. Those two men dressed as common labourers, leaning on the area railings of the Parker family’s residence, three doors from my own... Was it mere imagination, or had they looked over just a little too expectantly at my approach? My suspicion was confirmed as the pair turned towards me, the hair rising on the back of my neck at the friendly grins that went nowhere near their eyes. 

“Evening, Doctor!” one of them greeted me in a deep, rough voice; a heavily built young man with a slab-sided, obstinate face, and fair hair cropped short. I hardly had to glance at the abrasions and callouses on his knuckles to confirm that he was a prizefighter – and a good one, if the lack of marks on his face was any indication. Tightening my hold on my cane, I slowed to take stock of his companion on his left: shorter and slighter, a Roman nose and hooded eyes giving him a peevish expression, framed by longer dark hair that looked oddly clean for a labourer’s. Smooth, thin-fingered hands revealed little, but his restless gaze darting over my frame and lingering on my medical bag gave away his profession, too: thief, most likely a pickpocket.

“Bless my soul!” I exclaimed in seeming delight. “Peter Wainwright! Where the devil have you been hiding, old chap?” Before either of them could do more than exchange a confused glance, I had set down my Gladstone, stepped forward and grasped the thinner man’s right hand, shaking it warmly. In almost the same moment, my left hand lashed out with the heavy-topped cane at the heavier man’s head. Some instinct must have warned him, for what should have been a crippling blow merely whistled over his head as he ducked reflexively, fists raised in a professional stance. I had no time to congratulate myself on a solid piece of deduction, however, as the man whose hand I still grasped had recovered from his surprise and was reaching for my throat with his left. Off balance from the missed strike, I let go of the thief’s hand and let gravity take me, meaning to roll away, or at least strike at their kneecaps. I had unfortunately forgotten about my Gladstone on the ground, and landed on top of it, a strangled yelp escaping as the handle dug into the small of my back, then gasping as my wounded shoulder hit the pavement.

The prizefighter began to close in, but to my astonishment, the thief seized him by the shoulders and pulled him up short. 

“ _No_ , Sam, don’ be a fool! Weren’t meant ter go like this, remember?”

‘Sam’ growled, but grudgingly lowered his fists, while my erstwhile rescuer offered me his hand and an ingratiating grin. “Sorry ’bout that, guv’nor, yew got the drop on us an’ no mistake! Still, no ’arm done, eh?”

I pointedly ignored the outstretched hand, trying hard not to wince as I got to my feet with the aid of my cane. “You and your colleague might try visiting cards,” I grunted, “if you don’t want law-abiding citizens getting the wrong idea. What the devil’s going on?” 

“I like yer way, Doctor,” he chuckled. “No messin’ about, tha’s fair. Word is, yew bin lookin’ fer a certain gen’leman frien’ o’ yers, ’oo almost turned hisself into a firework?” My heart leapt as a stained scrap of paper appeared in the thief’s hand like a conjuring trick. “Well, yew can ’ave this with ’is compliments... _if_ yew promise ter stop lookin’ fer ’im.”

“What!” I blinked, hand frozen in mid-reach. “But why, for heaven’s sake?” Somehow, I didn’t doubt that the man was sincere.

“We ain’t got all night, guv’nor,” the thief responded tersely, peevish expression starting to return. “D’yew wan’ the message or not?”

“And how do you know I won’t keep searching for him after that?”

“You’re a smart man, Doctor...” A chill travelled down my spine as Sam glanced casually over his shoulder towards my front door. “You tell us.”

“I see,” I answered icily. “In that case, gentlemen... I shall bid you a pleasant evening. Good night!” As Sam started to move menacingly towards me, all need for diplomacy gone, I took two quick steps to my right and struck with my cane at the Parkers’ lighted parlour window, shattering the glass. “ _Fire_!” I shouted in as rough a voice as I could manage.

The effect was electric: the pair froze to the spot, and Mrs. Parker angrily wrenched the parlour curtains open a moment later, peering wide-eyed into the street, while running footsteps began to sound along the pavement. I had already dropped the cane, and pointed at the hastily retreating pair, bold as brass. “They did it, someone call a constable! I’m so sorry, Mrs. Parker, I was just too late to stop them!”

“Oh, thank you, Dr. Watson, it was so kind of you to intervene! Are you all right?”

“Quite all right, madam, thank you, but I must get home. Good night to you!”


	5. Chapter 5

"Why, Dr. Watson! Mrs. Watson!" Mrs. Hudson's face was a picture of combined delight and bewilderment. I didn't blame her in the least, it wasn't often she found me or my wife knocking at her back door!

"May we come in, Mrs. Hudson?" I said sheepishly, lifting my hat. "I'm so sorry to disturb you, but I couldn't think where else to come."

"Of course, Doctor, you're always welcome! Mary dear, it's wonderful to see you." The women embraced fondly. "You've timed things perfectly, as a matter of fact: who d'you suppose arrived not half an hour earlier?"

I didn't need to guess, my eye caught by half of a face peering warily around the kitchen door, topped by a thatch of fair hair. "Billy? Billy Evans, is that you?"

The rest of Billy Evans sidled into view, grinning. The young man had become an Irregular two years ago, after Holmes had caught him lifting my wallet, and he'd been trying ever since, 'just to keep his hand in'. " 'Ow do, Doctor. Missus Watson."

"Hello, Billy, how are you?" Mary smiled.

Billy flushed and looked down at his boots. "But wot brings you two 'ere, Doc? You needin' a place to 'ole up?"

"Something of the sort, lad. Is the kettle on, Mrs. Hudson? This is going to take some time to explain."

~0~

Tonight's visit to Baker Street was only my second since returning to London, the first time to deliver the awful news to Billy and the other Irregulars that their beloved 'guv'nor' had sacrificed his own life to defeat Moriarty. At least the fire that Moriarty's thugs had set hadn't touched the ground floor, and Mycroft had generously paid to have the sitting room restored to its former state, bullet holes and all; but nothing could replace the acid-stained carpet, or the dear old battered furniture which had been through so much with Holmes and I. I therefore spent rather longer than necessary in the kitchen to explain my business there, putting off going upstairs as long as possible. When the moment came, however, Mary's hand was firmly in mine, treading the seventeen steps beside me with Billy and Mrs. Hudson just behind.

I could hardly believe I had not considered consulting what remained of Holmes's papers after the fire until now. Perhaps my reluctance to return had barred my own 'brain attic' to the possibility of finding any help or comfort here... but although walking back into that sitting room was quite as difficult as I had feared, I had little time for reminiscing while the four of us sifted painstakingly through scrapbooks, cartons and filing cabinets for the least mention of diamonds, jewel thefts, or a prizefighter named Sam.

I had started my search with Holmes's 'J' file, smiling in spite of myself as a host of familiar names greeted me from 'Jewel thefts': the lost Agra treasure that had brought Mary and I together so wondrously; the beryl coronet; Charles the First's crown; the blue carbuncle; all meticulously cross-referenced with clients' and criminals' names... Well, that was curious.

"Billy... have you ever heard Holmes mention an 'Ikey Sanders'?"

"Er, can't say that I 'ave, Doc, no. 'Oo is 'e?"

"No idea, but his name is in the margin of the blue carbuncle notes! Holmes must have added this after I finished writing up the case... Pass that scrapbook labelled 'S', will you?" Sabotage, sadism, safe-cracking, saltpetre... "Ah! _Sanders, Ikey. Gem cutter, occasional fence. Address: 14 York Street, All Hallows. Known contacts –_ Good heavens, that's quite the list! Wait on, Maudsley, there's a familiar name..." I rummaged back in the 'J' file for my notes on James Ryder's confession. "Yes, here it is: _'I had a friend once called Maudsley, who went to the bad, and has just been serving his time in Pentonville... He would show me how to turn the stone into money.'_ "

"So, Sherlock believed this Ikey Sanders was going to cut the carbuncle up for them and fence it?" Mary asked, retying a bundle of newspapers.

"It looks that way. Thank goodness Ryder lost the stone to that goose!" I cast my eye further down the list. A fair number of Sanders's contacts had entries of their own elsewhere in these files, but one in particular caught my attention: Count Negretto Sylvius – a nobleman! A nobleman connected with a jewel fence? Could it be...? Feverishly, I thumbed to the back of the volume.

_Sylvius, Negretto, Count. Game-shot, sportsman, man-about-town. Born Venice, 1852. Half-Italian, son of Marcello Sylvius, Venetian merchant, and Lady Julia Tavington of Belcourt Manor, Cambridgeshire. Educated Venice and Cambridge. Address: George's Street, Hanover Square. Known associates..._

"My God... It's him!" I whispered, staring at the list. _Sam Merton, prizefighter; see also under 'M' and 'Hired thugs'._ Count Sylvius had Edward Taylor! Dear heaven, the thought of my poor friend in the employ of such a man was sickening. Never mind Moriarty, the Count deserved a file all to himself!

"Just listen to this, you three! According to Holmes, this Count Sylvius poisoned an elderly woman five years ago, inherited her estate, then gambled it all away in three months!"

"No!" Mary gasped. "Oh, how _wicked!_ "

"Oh, it gets worse," I replied grimly. "He disowned his illegitimate daughter, a Miss Minnie Warrender, twenty years after forcing himself on her mother, who worked in a dockside tavern. He's barely escaped being implicated in numerous robberies; he's also a confidence trickster, and an expert forger of signatures for large cheques."

Billy whistled. "That's one 'ell of a nerve!"

"Nerves of steel," I admitted grudgingly. "The fellow even hunted lions in Algeria before he started going wrong." Or perhaps the thrill of the hunt itself had woken the devil within?

"But _why_ is all of this data just sitting in a scrapbook, for goodness's sake?" Mrs. Hudson frowned. "Why isn't it with Scotland Yard?"

"I don't know... but Holmes clearly hoped to bring Sylvius to justice sooner or later!" And I... _I_ was now in the perfect position to finish what my friend had started! All that was missing was one key witness...

~0~

Mary must have been alerted by my pensive expression, because she made me swear not to stir outside the flat while she and Mrs. Hudson returned to the kitchen for more refreshments, the hour having grown rather late. Billy and I finished reshelving the files, then the lad decided to test the new settee by having a nap, while I paced before the fireplace as softly as I could, too agitated to rest. The pipe rack on the mantel caught my eye, and I hesitated. My own pipe and tobacco pouch were at home in the study... Surely Mrs. Hudson wouldn't mind, as long as I smoked out of the window? Holmes would never have grudged it, I knew, and I needed to calm my nerves somehow.

My friend had used his briar-root pipe the least, but my hand still trembled as I took it down, and I managed to knock the Persian slipper over the edge altogether, which landed with a heavier _thud_ than I would have expected. What on earth...? I bent to pick the slipper up, and my mouth fell open as a large, sparkling object dropped out onto the hearthrug with the loose tobacco. I nearly choked on a gasp, sinking to my knees and scrabbling to retrieve this newest and most alarming piece of evidence.

What in the name of all things holy was Queen Victoria's _Koh-i-Noor diamond_ doing in our flat?!


	6. Chapter 6

“Somethin’ wrong, Doc?” I started guiltily at Billy’s sleepy voice behind me, hastily palming the diamond and slipping it into my jacket pocket.

“No, lad, it’s all right. Go back to sleep, I’ll smoke out the bathroom window.” A little cold water seemed an excellent idea in any case; I could still hardly believe I wasn’t dreaming, despite the sobering weight in my pocket.

Safely locked in the bathroom, I gingerly drew out the stone again and examined it closely under the gaslight. I must have been mistaken, surely! This couldn’t be the real Koh-i-Noor, it had to be a fake, no matter how dazzling it was, or how closely it matched the real diamond’s weight, size and shape... but thanks to Holmes, I knew other tests for just this occasion. I breathed on the stone; fog formed for a moment, then vanished again just as quickly. All right, first test passed... I opened my spare notebook to a filled page, put the stone onto it flat side down and tried to read the words through it – not a single letter could be clearly seen. Damn! One more... I poured some water from the washstand jug into the basin and dropped in the stone: it sank straight to the bottom, followed closely by my stomach. 

Dear God... I sat unsteadily on the edge of the bathtub, mind reeling. As far as I could tell in this makeshift laboratory, that stone glinting wickedly up at me from the depths of the basin was the genuine article. There was certainly no mistaking it for any other diamond, not after the papers had reported its recutting only five years earlier, photographs and all! Although much improved in appearance, the stone had no longer fitted its original armlet, and been reset into two pieces for her Majesty, a brooch and a circlet. And wouldn’t that be the perfect diamond for a master thief like Sylvius to steal and replace with a fake: one that was _meant_ to detach so easily from its setting! The replica stone wouldn’t even need to be a perfect match – just good enough, as Mycroft would say, to deceive the average civilian... Taylor had finally mastered his craft, it seemed, and Ikey Sanders was most likely the latest accessory to Sylvius’s crime.

I jumped at a tap on the door. “Darling? Billy said you looked awfully pale just now, are you all right?”

“I’m fine, dear, honestly! I’d love another cup of tea, though!” I plucked the diamond out of the water and dried it, cursing my fevered imagination that made the cool carbon lump feel like a hot coal. Never mind deductions, what the devil was I going to do with the infernal thing now? It couldn’t stay in the flat with the others here, God only knew when Sylvius had smuggled the stone in, or when he and his thugs would be back for it! I could almost admire the sheer audacity of the man: hiding stolen goods in the one place in London no one would ever think to look... Now, _there_ was a thought...

~0~

“Visitors?” Mrs. Hudson looked oddly embarrassed. “Well, yes, I’ve had a fair few in since the funeral! I’m sorry, Doctor,” she added, patting my shoulder. “But you know how it is when it’s somebody famous, and I didn’t see any harm in letting people pay their respects.”

“Lettin’ ’em ’ave a good snoop, don’t you mean?” Billy snorted.

“We can’t all afford to let good rooms gather dust, dear!” the woman replied tartly. “Every penny helps.”

“There’s an _entry fee_?” I must have been too distracted to notice a collection box on the way up. “Well, well, never mind that now. I don’t suppose you remember anyone in the last fortnight or so who stood out? A smooth, foreign-looking gentleman, dark hair, olive skin?” I could only assume that Sylvius might more closely resemble his father.

“I don’t think so... No, I’m sorry, Doctor, I don’t remember anyone like that.”

“All right, what about...”

“You wouldn’t be describing this Count Sylvius, would you, John?” Mary interrupted sharply. “Why should he come here, of all places?”

Billy snickered at my cornered expression. “The missus ’as you there, Doc! You thinkin’ Sylvius might want a nosey at Mr. ’Olmes’s papers, too, see wot the guv’nor ’ad on ’im?”

I almost sagged in relief. “Exactly, lad, well done! Mrs. Hudson, have you ever left your visitors alone up here? No, of course not, silly of me.” Even a well-intentioned tripper mightn’t be able to resist pocketing a souvenir.

“And the ‘S’ file still has Sylvius’s name in it,” Mary added, “so if anyone did come for that, they’ve left empty-handed.”

“So far,” I agreed, sighing deeply. “And that’s what worries me. I hate to say it, you three, God knows I do... but I think... it’s time to involve the Yard. These files have been sitting here unprotected for far too long, and Sylvius or his thugs could be back at any time to set fire to the lot.”

“Just like last time,” Mary murmured in concern, slipping her hand back into mine. “What do you need us to do?” 

I squeezed her hand with a grateful smile. “You three need to get the file on Sylvius to Scotland Yard, and tell Lestrade what’s going on. Mrs. Hudson, lock up the house and take the keys with you. We’re doing this one by the book, and I don’t want there to be any doubt about how Sylvius got in – assuming he comes tonight, of course.”

“John–!”

“You needn’t worry about me, love,” I added hastily, sternly suppressing any twinges of guilt at the look on my wife’s face. “I’ll be safe outside, watching the back door. _If_ Sylvius breaks in, I can keep him upstairs from the ground floor until the police arrive. I brought the Webley, remember?”

“And if he breaks in at the front door?” Mrs. Hudson frowned.

“He wouldn’t dare,” Billy scoffed. “S’no area out front, and the fog ain’t thick enough!”

“Quite right,” I nodded, ignoring for the moment the fact that Billy had obviously given thought to the problem in the past. “His best chance is the back door. I’ll be fine, Mary,” I repeated firmly. “Sylvius likely won’t come tonight, anyhow. And if he does, he’ll be the one caught off guard, not me. I shan’t do anything foolish, I promise.”

“But you _can’t_ promise that!” Mary burst out, eyes glistening angrily. “You never can!”

I shook my head, heart aching at the anguish in her voice. I, too, had felt so sure that my wife would never have to spend another sleepless night... “I’m sorry, Mary, I truly am... but _someone_ has to stay, and it can’t be any of you!” I drew Mary close and held her, stiff and trembling. “Remember: Sylvius doesn’t know yet what evidence Holmes collected, or how many people have seen it. He’s a careful man, he won’t implicate himself in a crime unless he sees no other way, and I will take the greatest care not to force his hand. It’s the only way, Mary, believe me,” I coaxed. “The sooner you three get to the Yard, the sooner I... the sooner we can put him away for good.”

Mary sighed deeply and rested her head on my shoulder. “All right...” She looked up again, biting her lip. “But John... I’m so sorry, but this has to be the last time you do something like this. No more police work. I want my husband home from Switzerland.”


	7. Chapter 7

_Home from Switzerland..._ Mary’s words were a slap across the face, stealing the breath from me. How... how _could_ my wife say such a thing – at this time, in this place! Had I not returned from Switzerland, in the midst of my guilt and grief? Had I not devoted myself to Mary since, tending to her every need, whilst working around the clock? Had I not fought off a pair of ruthless villains at our very door, then kept Mary with me as she had insisted, instead of sending her to Mrs. Forrester? What right had she now to accuse me of neglecting her, for _Holmes_ of all people?!

Mary herself seemed equally shocked at the unguarded sentiment that had escaped, her cheeks as red as mine felt, tears finally spilling over. “John...”

I shook my head abruptly, turning to where Billy and Mrs. Hudson stood by the door, looking just as embarrassed. “You...” I cleared my throat and tried again. “You’d best be off, you three.” 

“Doctor...” 

“Billy, go and find a cab, if you please,” I continued coolly, ignoring Mrs. Hudson’s stammering. “We’re wasting time.”

“Right-oh.” Billy eyed me warily on his way out, a look I hadn’t seen since... God, since Holmes had first sworn him into the Irregulars, in this very room... 

Dear heaven, was _this_ what Mary had meant? Was I so determined to prove myself worthy of being Holmes’s colleague, I would thoughtlessly trample those with my best interests at heart? Billy’s face just now, as if the man before him was someone he barely recognised, and didn’t particularly trust... And to whom _was_ I attempting to prove myself, really? Had I truly given Holmes up for dead... or was I still at the waterfall, shouting into the abyss and waiting desperately for my friend to answer, to tell me I hadn’t failed him after all?

~0~

“Be careful, John!” Mary whispered, leaning back out of the cab.

“I will, love.” I kissed her, trying to put everything into it that I still couldn’t say aloud. _I’ll be home soon, Mary, I promise... but this is something I have to do._ Avoiding eye contact with the other two, I closed the door firmly and handed double the usual fare to the driver. “Scotland Yard, as fast as you can.” 

With the cab out of sight, I headed straight for the back door again, pulling out my pocket knife. No need to wait for Sylvius in the cold and damp – Mrs. Hudson mercifully seemed to have forgotten about the spare key, hidden under a loose cobblestone beside the step... No! The key, where had it gone?! I swept the surrounding cobbles with groping fingers, peering through the murk, but found nothing, and the other stones all appeared undisturbed. 

Damn! Who could have taken it? Mrs. Hudson was the obvious suspect, and it wouldn’t be out of character, either, but with things as they were, I was much more inclined to think that somebody else had it... Which meant I would have no choice but to act as I had promised Mary: wait for Count Sylvius out here! Unless...

~0~

I all but fell over the sill into Holmes’s old bedroom, lying motionless on the rug for a good five minutes to ease the trembling in my limbs, my freshly abused shoulder aching abominably. Chief among my thoughts was the dour reflection that Holmes had always made the climb look ridiculously easy – the man must have been part mountain goat! If that window catch hadn’t already been broken... Coaxing the sash open from the outside had been hard enough with the wood so swollen.

What a difference a year could make, I mused as I gingerly massaged my shoulder. Strange to think how I had detested solving cases with Holmes in the winter – although I could very well appreciate why just at the moment! And now... I would have climbed the Himalayas to be at his side again... But this was hardly the time to remain sunk in reflection. I blew my nose hard, then set about easing myself up off the floor.

The house felt horribly empty as I re-entered the sitting room, which, I reminded myself sternly, was all for the best if I wished to take the enemy by surprise. I made one last painstaking tour of the room, ensuring that the place looked just as it had before my arrival, the tobacco slipper and pipe back in their positions on the mantel, then bathed my scraped and grimy hands before returning to the bedroom. The window blinds, the dark and the fog would give excellent cover for watching the street below. 

~0~

_Click._

I raised my head from the sill with a gasp, wincing as my neck protested. My God, how long had I slept? I could have boxed my own ears for being so careless! I stared down into the street, though the fog was too thick now to see much, even beside the back door... Oh no... Had I replaced the loose cobblestone before making the climb? I couldn’t remember! And if Sylvius were to see that, he’d know for certain this was a trap! I was debating whether or not to open the window to get a better look, when a faint creaking made my heart miss a beat. Who should know the music of that staircase better than I, having tried for years to reach the top undetected by Holmes? Sylvius was _already inside_ , had just trodden on the left side of the fifth step, and would be at the upper landing in moments. I had never been less thankful that this chamber had two doors, because now I had to watch both with the corner of Holmes’s wardrobe for cover, the weight of the revolver in my hand cool and reassuring – a far cry from that of the Koh-i-Noor! 

Straining my ears for more creaks and groans, I was rewarded at last by the squeaky floorboard just inside the sitting room door. I had to grudgingly admit that Sylvius’s reputation as a master thief was well deserved, the Count had the feathery tread of a cat! Patience now, just a few moments more and Sylvius would be at the fireplace! I trod as softly as I could to the door, took a deep breath as I grasped the handle, then yanked it open, revolver trained on the far side of the room and the shadowy figure crouched there.

“Good evening, Count, do forgive the mess. To what do I owe this unexpected pleasure?” That is doubtless what I would have said... had I not felt the point of a knife at my back before I could utter a word.


	8. Chapter 8

“Easy, guv’nor, let’s not be ’asty,” came a familiar, ingratiating voice in my ear. “I could gut yew in my sleep, I could.”

“Now, now, Jack, there’s no need for that.” I was forced to shield my eyes as the gas jet above the sitting room fireplace flared, revealing a tall, athletic figure, dressed in black, dark wavy hair and Bodeo revolver gleaming in the light. The man stepped away from the hearth, allowing me a better look at his face: olive skin proudly proclaimed Sylvius’s Italian ancestry, a formidable moustache shading a cruel, thin-lipped mouth, surmounted by a long, curved nose and fierce blue eyes. “I would advise you to keep those arms raised a moment longer, Dr. Watson. Does he have the stone?” That last was directed at Jack the thief, whose hands had been darting around my person and clothing from behind with disconcerting speed.

“Not unless ’e swallowed it!” Jack snickered, sounding unnervingly like he was debating the best spot to start cutting. I clenched my fists instinctively, only realising then that Jack had also taken my Webley in the search. 

“My apologies, Doctor.” My lips tightened as Sylvius made himself comfortable in Holmes’s fireside chair, gesturing invitingly at the settee. “Pray be seated. Your leg must plague you dreadfully on such cold, damp nights – or is it your shoulder?”

“Too kind, my dear sir,” I managed to answer in equally amiable tones as I came forward, taking care to limp more heavily than usual. No sense in becoming irked over such a trifling provocation, my true business with this villain was of far greater import. “May I offer you a cigarette? Or perhaps... a pipe?”

A gleam of anger appeared in the blue depths for just a moment, although the Count’s urbane expression never wavered, watching me awkwardly lower myself onto the settee. “A hit, Doctor, a very palpable hit! It really was unpardonably foolish to hide the Koh-i-Noor here – dear me, does a ready admission surprise you?”

“You must feel certain it would be of little use to me,” I shrugged. “Forgive the vulgarity, Count, but might I ask you to speak even more plainly? What odds would you lay on my leaving this house alive, if I returned the stone to you?”

“I am not a betting man by nature, Doctor, but I should lay excellent odds,” Sylvius returned with an odd little smile. “Especially since you have just confessed to me that it _is_ still in the house.” The Count laughed suddenly at my poorly-concealed look of dismay. “A hit to match yours, sir, admit it! And what would you have in return for the stone?”

“Edward Taylor... I mean, the diamond maker’s freedom,” I answered instantly. “I’m quite sure it was you who broke him out of Bethlem, and that he created a replica Koh-i-Noor so you could steal the original without immediate discovery. Release him to me, unharmed, and you can have it back.” Sylvius could cut the diamond into a hundred pieces to play marbles for all I cared, if I could only buy back the life it had purchased.

Sylvius looked sincerely regretful, while his accomplice snorted behind me. “I believed my associates had made plain to you earlier, Doctor, that that is quite impossible. Taylor must remain where he is. However...” He nodded to Jack, and a tiny piece of crumpled paper flew over the back of the settee, landing near my hand. “He insisted you would see reason if given that.”

I smoothed the paper carefully, and stared in bewilderment at the pencilled message: _Cobalt Molybdenum Nitrogen Arsenic Cobalt Aluminium._ What in the world...? “Is this a joke?” For one wild moment, I had wondered if this was a recipe for the flux formula, but it couldn’t be, not with such odd elements! Molybdenum might be a practical alternative for steel with its higher melting point, but _cobalt?_ And why write that word twice? Unless... of course, this wasn’t about the elements’ _properties_ at all! A code that only a man of science could read – fiendishly clever!

“Well?” 

Did I detect a note of real intrigue in Sylvius’s voice? Although sorely tempted to deny all knowledge, I nodded briefly, flicking the ball of paper into the still-glowing embers of the fire. “It seems I owe _you_ an apology, Count. The message is plain: Taylor has no desire for rescue, at least.” A pyrrhic victory, perhaps, but just now I would take what little satisfaction I could at the enemy’s expense.

“Indeed.” Sylvius thoughtfully smoothed his moustache with a forefinger, then reached into his breast pocket. “In which case, perhaps you will allow me to propose a different bargain.” 

Having half expected the Count to produce a wallet or cheque book, I blinked at the small, glittering object he held up for a moment... then stared in horror, barely refraining from making any sudden movements. Unless I was sorely mistaken, that was one of _Mary’s gold earrings!_

“I do hope we can still settle this matter to everyone’s satisfaction, Doctor.” Sylvius’s purring voice had a distinct undertone of claws being unsheathed. “A pretty trinket, is it not? It would be a great shame if Sam failed to remove the other as neatly.”

“You–” I started to choke out, then stopped as a nagging doubt surfaced amid the roiling fury. That earring... a plain, drop-shaped hoop... Hadn’t Mary been wearing the _amethyst_ pair earlier?! Yes, yes, I was sure of it now! Sylvius must be bluffing; he and his accomplices hadn’t come near my wife tonight, only her jewel box! The only person in any sort of danger at this moment was myself, and I could very well live with that! And the others had hopefully reached Scotland Yard already, because it looked as if I couldn’t delay the inevitable any longer.

I took a deep breath as if to steady myself, letting my shoulders slump and directing a murderous glare at the Count’s satisfied smirk. “You _bastard_.”

“Really, Doctor!” Sylvius’s chuckle sounded almost sympathetic. “You must surely have realised by now that I never conduct business without securities. Your lovely young wife has taken no hurt as yet, nor will she if you cooperate – on my honour as a gentleman,” he added, as I appeared to hesitate. “And now, sir, the diamond, if you please.”

“All right, _fine!_ ” I snapped. “The damn thing is in with the coal, get it yourself – if you can stand to get your hands that dirty!”

Sylvius actually laughed aloud. “Well played, Doctor, the irony is perfectly delicious! But I rather think not.” He took the full coal scuttle by its handle, swinging it over to land on the hearthrug. “One piece at a time into the fire, no need for theatrics – and the good Mrs. Hudson would hardly appreciate such a mess.”

I knelt stiffly before the scuttle and began to pick out the coals, painfully aware of the two revolvers trained on me from left and right. A quarter of the bucket was quickly dispatched into the fire; one more coal, and Jack exclaimed excitedly, he and Sylvius unconsciously leaning in to get a better look at the first glitter of crystal shining up from the black depths. Quick as thought, I upended the scuttle and dumped the remaining contents onto the rug, which included a good two inches of ash at the bottom. It rose up in a great, choking cloud, and both men reared backwards, coughing madly. 

I had barely remembered to hold my own breath and close my eyes in time, swinging the empty scuttle blindly towards Sylvius. A _clang_ and a _thud_ told me I had managed to knock the gun from the Count’s hand, and I gathered myself to tackle him to the carpet... only to tread on a stray piece of coal. Sylvius sprang at me while I was still off balance and bore me to the floor, hands locked around my throat, streaming eyes full of murderous intent. By some miracle, my skull just grazed the edge of the hearth, but the pain and shock were enough to fill my vision with a thousand dancing lights.

I truly believe that would have been the end of me, if Jack had not gasped out in dismay, “Boss! He-he tricked us! It’s not the stone!” 

“What?!” Sylvius glared through the ash haze at the sparkling object Jack had just unearthed. “What the hell is that thing?” 

“It’s _glass_ , boss! A decanter stopper!”

Sylvius snarled, tightening his grip on my throat. “Where’s the bloody _diamond?!_ ”

I had neither desire nor breath to answer as I struggled weakly, vainly, to break free of those pitiless hands, the room seeming to turn darker by the second. True, I had shattered the Count’s urbane and smiling façade... but the fatal error I’d hoped to elicit had just become mine... My poor Mary... I had failed her quite as badly... _Holmes... forgive me..._ I would surely be with him soon... I could almost hear his violin... ah yes, there it was, such a sweet, haunting tune... but the mists were dispersing now, Sylvius’s thunderstruck countenance swimming back into view, grip unconsciously slackened as he stared towards Holmes’s bedroom – he could hear it, too?!

A fervent oath from an equally dumbfounded Jack seemed to break the spell, the Count springing to his feet and snatching up the fallen revolver. “Watch him!” he hissed over his shoulder, and sidled over to the bedroom door. Not daring to lift my head with Jack’s knife at my throat, I heard the door burst inwards, a groan of surprise, then a shout of anger: “Show yourself, Holmes! I have your precious doctor, the game’s up!”

“How true!” came a blessedly familiar voice from the sitting room door. “Stay right where you are, gentlemen!” Lestrade, Gregson and a team of constables quickly fanned out into the room, pistols at the ready. 

“Drop that knife!” Lestrade shouted at Jack, the steel in his voice promising hell on earth if disobeyed. “Hands in the air! Cuff him, you two, and see to the doctor! Count Sylvius, I arrest you and your accomplice in the Queen’s name!”


	9. Chapter 9

“Outta the way, lemme through, I got ter see the Doctor!” Billy rushed into the room and fell to his knees beside the settee, where the constables had moved me before helping to escort Sylvius and Jack downstairs. “Blimey, Doc, I thought you were cooked! You ’urt bad?”

I managed a faint smile, still extremely weak and dizzy, aches and pains in abundance now that I was at leisure to notice them. “Nothing a holiday won’t cure, lad,” I whispered, trying not to aggravate my abused throat further.

“That’ll do, young man,” Lestrade said sternly, coming over. “Now, run over to St. Mary’s and tell whatever doctor’s on duty that he’s wanted here on police business. I’ll stay with Dr. Watson. Oh, and on your way, turn off that blasted fiddle, will you?”

Billy grinned, vanishing into the bedroom. Although I had already deduced the identity of the phantom violinist, it was still a shock when the wailing notes from Holmes’s gramophone were abruptly cut off. For one precious moment, I had dared to hope...

“Remarkable invention, those machines,” Lestrade went on, a trifle awkwardly. “It was Billy’s idea, you know, to use the one in there as a diversion. I’m, er, sorry if hearing that music upset you...”

I held up a shaky hand and croaked urgently, “Mary?”

“She’s fine, so’s Mrs. Hudson. They’re both waiting for you at home. At least you had the good sense to get _them_ out of the way!” Lestrade shook his head, suddenly looking very old and tired. “Watson... what in God’s name were you _thinking?_ If we’d been just a minute later...” 

I blinked hard, throat now aching for a very different reason. “Sylvius...” I whispered. “He took Taylor...” Oh heavens, the diamond! I pointed to where the decanter stopper still lay among the coals and rasped, “Pick that up... put it back...”

Lestrade looked at me oddly, but bent down and retrieved the stopper, brushing off the last of the soot, and took it over to the sideboard. “What are you talking about, Watson, none of the stoppers are _Jesus, Mary and Joseph!_ ” 

I couldn’t help but grin as Lestrade snatched the Koh-i-Noor from its perch atop the whiskey decanter, turning to gape at me with the old, dumbfounded expression I hadn’t seen in far too long. “...sorry...” Holmes hadn’t been the only one with a secret love of the dramatic.

“Like hell!” My colleague groped for the nearest chair and collapsed into it, still staring at the diamond as if it were an unexploded bomb. “Good God... Don’t tell me the others knew about this!”

“Just Sylvius... and associates... All in the file...”

“So that scrapbook really was insurance? And you made sure Sylvius couldn’t dispose of it, or the diamond...” Lestrade’s gaze returned to the mess on the hearthrug, lips twitching. “And... hid a counterfeit in the coal bucket?!”

“Seemed p-poetic...” I had tried my hardest, but the Inspector’s face was just too much, and Lestrade soon joined me in my mirth. 

“Hiding in plain sight,” Lestrade chuckled at last, wiping his eyes. “Oh, I can’t wait to see the Count’s face when he hears! Gregson, too, come to that... Hold on, though, how _did_ Sylvius steal it without anyone knowing? There hasn’t been the least sniff of a rumour about this at the Yard!”

“Taylor’s copy... s’good enough...”

“To fool the average civilian, yes, I remember,” my colleague finished grimly. “Are you telling me that Her Majesty may have no idea she’s even been robbed?”

I nodded gingerly, just as the front door banged open and Billy’s eager feet rushed upstairs. “Doctor’s comin’, Inspector!”

“Good lad.” Lestrade had hastily slipped the diamond into his coat pocket, rising from the chair. “Keep an eye on the patient till he gets here, will you? I’ve a few telegrams to send...”

~0~

“Afternoon, Doctor.” Lestrade stood smiling in my bedroom doorway, a folded newspaper under his arm. “Feeling better, I hope?”

“Somewhat...” I whispered. A night’s rest at home had done little to refresh me, my head and throat still very tender, and unable to set foot out of bed yet without the room wheeling. “How’d you get past the guards?” 

“You can thank Mrs. Hudson for that, she persuaded your good wife to let me up. Not that I blame her for being reluctant!” the Inspector added hastily. “But I thought you’d rest easier hearing how we got on after Billy brought you home.”

I gingerly nodded, brightening. “Taylor? Is he...?”

“Safe and sound, don’t you worry – well, as sound as might be expected! Although we didn’t actually find him at Count Sylvius’s estate...” Lestrade drew up a chair and took out his notebook. “I made inquiries with Sylvius’s bank this morning, and learned that he’d deposited a large sum in gold quite recently.”

“But... if he still had the diamond...”

“Exactly – with the stone still in one piece at Baker Street, where’d he get that kind of money? Certainly not from the likes of Ikey Sanders!”

“Hardly!” I snorted. “Are you saying Sylvius was working for someone else?”

Lestrade nodded. “The Count wouldn’t talk, but we got what we needed from his accomplices. I don’t know if you and Mr. Holmes ever had any dealings with the Lord Chamberlain in the past?”

I nearly choked on a gasp. “Lord _Cantlemere?!_ You’re having me on!”

“See for yourself.” Lestrade unfolded the newspaper.

LORD CANTLEMERE’S RETIREMENT

THE LORD CHAMBERLAIN TO RESIGN

_The Times regrets to announce that Lord Robert Cantlemere, Lord Chamberlain of Her Majesty’s household, will have an audience with the Queen on Saturday, when he will place in her hands his resignation, and that Lord Edward Skelmersdale will then be summoned to undertake the position._

_The Times understands that Lord Cantlemere, one of Her Majesty’s most devoted retainers, was reluctantly persuaded to take early retirement by Sir Andrew Halliday, Physician to the Queen, the demands of the royal post reportedly having placed too much strain upon even Cantlemere’s formidable constitution..._

“What, no word about how the ailing Lord Cantlemere... valiantly overpowered a dastardly jewel thief in her Majesty’s apartments?” I asked, as sarcastically as a whisper would allow. 

“Don’t be ridiculous, Doctor, we both know that no thief could get past the palace guards,” Lestrade replied innocently. “And that’s all anyone needs to know.”

“...I suppose.” The most senior officer of the royal household... Lord Cantlemere had been perfectly placed to orchestrate such an audacious crime! “What will happen to Cantlemere?”

“Given his spotless public record up until now, he’ll likely be placed under house arrest for life. Fortunately for him, depriving the Queen of her crown is only a treason _felony_ , not high treason!”

“What about Sylvius and the others?”

“Closed hearings, probably life sentences.” Lestrade met my frown with a grim shrug. “I know, I know, but honestly, Watson, what would you prefer to happen? Taylor’s talents be made known to the world? A formerly trusted commodity massively devalued, wreaking economic havoc? Which is exactly what would happen if the press got wind of it!” 

“You sound just like Mycroft,” I grumbled. 

“How do you think we made the arrest? Mycroft invited his lordship to Whitehall, supposedly to finalise arrangements for Her Majesty’s December itinerary...”

“And offered him an honourable ‘retirement’... in exchange for a confession.” Thus saving the rest of his family from public disgrace. “But why did he want the Koh-i-Noor in the first place?”

“I don’t know, he wouldn’t say. Mycroft seemed to have an inkling, I thought, but...” Lestrade chuckled, shaking his head. “Well, _you_ know what it’s like getting more information out of a Holmes brother!”

“...Yes.” _‘...I was quite convinced that the letter from Meiringen was a hoax, and I allowed you to depart on that errand...’_

Lestrade’s smile faded, looking at me awkwardly. “You know, Watson... I’ve seen a lot in this job, from the mildly puzzling to the downright grotesque – and yes, a good part of that’s been down to you and Mr. Holmes, thank you for that! But... John...” My colleague hesitated, then went on slowly, heavily, as if forcing the words out. “Last night, when Mary put that file on my desk and told me where you were... well, I’ve only ever been that scared once before.”

I couldn’t even whisper an apology, the lump in my throat growing ever bigger, eyes moist and stinging. _‘...a cost which will give pain to my friends, and especially, my dear Watson, to you...’_

“If that devil had killed you...” Lestrade’s hands were actually trembling slightly as he put his notebook away again, the shadows from last night returning to his face. “Honest to God, Watson, I don’t know how I could’ve faced him...”

I shook my head miserably as my colleague broke off, cheeks suddenly scarlet. As if Mycroft would have cared! Or did he mean Billy? 

“Well, I’m just glad you are still in one piece, that’s all,” Lestrade went on gruffly. “And Gregson and Bradstreet and all the lads at the Yard, too - not to mention those blessed boys of yours have been taking turns to try sneaking upstairs...”

What began as a laugh caught in my throat and emerged as a strangled sob, the first of many as I gave up the struggle, Lestrade’s arms somehow keeping the myriad pieces of me together in a waterlogged, jumbled heap, until the shaking finally eased and blessed darkness reclaimed me.


	10. Chapter 10

“It was grief, Doctor, which drove him to it,” Mycroft said solemnly, a thick carboard file lying open before him on the desk. “Cantlemere had a younger brother, Charles, fifteen years his junior, to whom he was utterly devoted. Alas, Charles had been lured to South Africa two years ago by the diamond boom, and was killed in a mining accident – or so witnesses claimed.”

“So Cantlemere was trying to prevent any more needless deaths,” I murmured in amazement, intrigue overtaking resentment at Mycroft’s summons to his office this morning, “by shaking the public’s confidence in the value of true diamonds!”

“And heaven help us all if society ever agrees with him!” Mycroft sighed, massaging his temples. “However, Cantlemere failed to take into account that diamonds also have immense practical worth in the industrial field. Devaluing them as a commodity alone would not have been enough to halt the diamond trade altogether. One can’t help understanding his motives, of course, but...”

“But Taylor’s skills would still have done more harm than good in the long run.” I couldn’t help sympathising with Cantlemere, either, after what I had undergone myself for just two of these infernal lumps of crystallised carbon! “...What’s going to happen to him?” Fom what Lestrade had told me, my friend had been well on the mend when discovered, and staying as Cantlemere’s honoured guest while working. The poor fellow had never been happier... 

“Well, I don’t suppose Her Majesty would be pleased if the donor of a new jewel to the Crown collection were jailed for his generosity,” Mycroft remarked innocently. “It must have been most trying for the royal jeweller, changing settings all the time.”

I stared. _Two_ Koh-i-Noors... and very few people would be certain which piece held the fake, the tiara or the brooch... but if Taylor was in no danger of losing his freedom a second time... _Oh._

“Taylor’s working for you now, isn’t he?” I stated flatly. “The government, I mean. I imagine they’ve been hoping to offer him a job since before the explosion!”

“Between these four walls, Doctor,” Mycroft smiled apologetically. “Yes, our hand was rather forced by that terrible accident, although we haven’t completely ruled out sabotage. Taylor’s survival was nothing short of a miracle. The asylum was for his protection while he recovered, more secure than an ordinary hospital – or so my associates believed.”

“But Cantlemere broke him out first.” And I’d spent a whole evening at the Yard inventing a cover story Taylor hadn’t even needed!

“And his lordship’s been justly compensated for his care of the patient,” Mycroft answered dryly, closing the file. “Thankfully for all concerned, it appears Count Sylvius could not quite bring himself to hand the diamond over immediately after the exchange, since only he knew for certain when it had happened. Which reminds me, Doctor, the Queen also wishes to convey her deepest...”

I shook my head wearily, cutting him off; I hadn’t faced Sylvius and his thugs for Her Majesty, or the Empire! “No reward, Mycroft. I just want to see Taylor, one last time, before you hide him away again.”

~0~

Mary squeezed my hand comfortingly, anchoring me amid the sea of humanity on the station platform. “Ready, love?”

I smiled faintly and squeezed back, not the least bit ready. I hadn’t expected Mycroft to grant my request quite so literally: Queen Victoria’s private waiting room at Paddington Station! Taylor was to take a private train, Heaven and Mycroft alone knew where... How bizarre it all seemed, having fought so hard for the life and liberty of a man I had only ever seen once before, and likely never would again. Was it only concern for Taylor’s welfare that moved me, I wondered, or was it partly to dispel any lingering doubts that our first meeting had actually happened, that the scorched and ragged patient I had tended in that cell hadn’t been a mere delusion, desperately conjured out of grief to replace the dear friend I had lost? I still didn’t have an answer... but the inexorably marching hands of the station clock pointedly reminded me that such musings were irrelevant just now.

Finally, I took a deep breath and nodded. “Let’s go in.”

A pair of liveried footmen approached as we entered, taking our coats and hats, then the elder led us into a richly furnished parlour. A suited figure stood before the marble fireplace, hands outstretched to the flames, hands that had once clutched at mine, covered in such terrible burns...

“Doctor and Mrs. Watson.”

The man at once turned, and despite my earlier warnings I heard Mary stifle a gasp, her hand tightening on the crook of my arm. I didn’t blame her in the least, not having seen Taylor as he had first appeared that fateful night! The burns and cuts all seemed to be healing, but the poor fellow’s skin would likely resemble melted wax for the rest of his life. I was glad, however, to see a fine ginger stubble returning to my friend’s head, which he would be wise to grow long to cover his brow and what remained of his ears. Moreover, the earlier soot had obscured a refined, gentle face, though marked now by deep lines of pain and dark circles under the eyes, which I simply hadn’t noticed before were a muddy brown. Taylor was also, I was startled to note, a good two inches taller than myself, but the care and nourishment lavished on Lord Cantlemere’s guest of honour had nearly returned him to a proper weight; the young giant smiling shyly at me was no more of a facsimile of Holmes than I.

Ignoring the lump in my throat, I stepped forward, cautiously extending a hand, but Taylor would have none of it, seizing my hand in both of his, masking a flinch of pain with an exhilarated laugh. “Doctor Watson, how good to see you again!”

“And you, my dear fellow!” I exclaimed, resisting with difficulty the urge to clasp him by the shoulders. “How are you?”

“Never better!” he lied cheerfully, turning next to Mary with a bow. “Your servant, madam.”

Rallying, Mary smiled sincerely, returning the bow. “John, won’t you introduce me to your charming friend?”

“Delighted, my dear.” I didn’t know what had inspired Mary to act as if she knew nothing of the case, but Taylor’s gratified expression told me it had been exactly the right thing to do. “Allow me to make known to you Mr. Edward Taylor, a scientific colleague of mine.”

“A pleasure to meet you, Mr. Taylor. We were about to sit down to tea, will you join us?” Mary tugged a nearby bell-rope, then gestured invitingly at the fireside chairs with the air of a duchess. 

“My dear, I... I really don’t think...” I began hesitantly, but the footman had already reappeared.

“Tea for three, please,” Mary told him, as if she hadn’t heard me, then added in a pleasant but emphatic voice, “And you may inform Mr. Mycroft Holmes that Mr. Taylor’s train will not be departing for at least an hour.”

“C-certainly, madam.” The wide-eyed footman almost scurried out of the room, while Taylor and I stared first at my wife, then at each other. Had that really just happened?

~0~

It was the most wonderful afternoon I had spent in a very long time, and Taylor also seemed to appreciate the chance to simply sit and converse on harmless topics of interest over tea and cakes, served on Her Majesty’s own china. I could only imagine how weary my friend already was of his life’s work being conscripted for the purposes of the rich and influential, but here he was taking tea with two people who weren’t the least bit interested in diamonds!

All too soon, however, the three of us had to return to the platform, where Mycroft stood waiting beside the train, eyeing Mary askance, but wisely forbearing to comment. Mary bade Taylor a warm farewell, then went off to engage a carriage home, leaving the pair of us facing each other awkwardly

“Well... goodbye,” I murmured at last, extending my hand again to grasp his firmly – Taylor didn’t like having his injuries coddled any more than I did mine, it seemed. 

“Goodbye, Doctor – and thank you.” Taylor hesitated. “By the way, er... I suppose someone should know... My name, it isn’t actually Taylor.”

“I know,” I smiled. “What is it really?”

“It’s, er, Molesey, Herbert Molesey,” he blushed. “I never liked it, and well, there was an Edward Taylor at my old college – quite brilliant, really, or he could have been if the drink hadn’t taken him...”

I nodded in sympathy. “Then I wish I could tell him how brave his namesake is, and how proud I am to know him. You’ll do great things for your country in time, my friend, I feel certain.” _‘If my record were closed to-night I could still survey it with equanimity...’_

Molesey blushed, mumbling something I couldn’t catch, then we both started at the sound of the guard’s whistle.

Mycroft approached and cleared his throat. “My apologies, gentlemen, but we must be going.”

“Naturally,” I said, more primly than I’d intended. “Oh, and I shall be writing regular letters to Mr. Taylor, Mycroft, so please ensure they are delivered?” I didn’t expect to receive any in return – Herbert Molesey wasn’t the type to write more than coded messages in chemical symbols – but that was well beside the point!

Mycroft half raised an eyebrow, expression inscrutable as he studied me, then bowed. “As you wish, Doctor.” He stepped into the carriage after Molesey... Taylor with a tip of his hat, just before the steaming train began to pull away. “ _Au revoir._ ” 

As I waved, I felt Mary come up beside me, slim gloved hand tucking comfortingly into my elbow again. “Will he be all right now?” she asked softly. 

I nodded, hearing clearly what my wife had hesitated to voice. “We both will.” It was good to be home at last.

****

****

**The End**


End file.
